


Arrows

by Evilsnowswan



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Rumbelle Showdown, Rumbelle Showdown 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 11:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10436277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evilsnowswan/pseuds/Evilsnowswan
Summary: In order to make ends meet, Belle works as a phone sex operator. It’s not just a job though, especially when there’s one Mr. Gold living out one unusual fantasy. (This is actually SFW, only rated T, despite its description.)Written for the Rumbelle Showdown 2017Prompts: Caught in a storm, Light, Where will you go- Nominated for Best One-Shot in The Espenson Awards 2018 -





	

The red light blinks. She picks up the phone, enters her code, and scribbles the receipt number in her log book. Her hands are shaking a little. They always are. She takes a deep breath to calm herself. The operator tells her the caller has paid for 30 minutes - twice the minimum, and has also prepaid a tip.

Another 30 seconds left to breathe. The computer connects the call. Then silence. 

“ _Hello_ -”

Her sexiest hello still needs work, but they like it like that. It turns them on to hear the aftershock of their call in her voice. The jolt. 

“Hello, sweetheart.”

“Good evening, _Mr Gold_. —” She almost asks him how he’s doing. Manners are a hard thing to forget, even when you are talking dirty with strangers on the phone. Her notes remind her not to just in time. It’s his line.

“Are you well?”

His voice is deep and gravelly, his accent pleasant, and her nerves kick in.

“Yes, Mister, quite well. Thank you.”

Normally, she’s a little disappointed if her caller is someone she has talked to before. New callers bring real challenges, and she enjoys figuring out the puzzle of what each one likes and needs. The mystery is a rush.

Somehow he knows just how to keep it alive.

He always starts the game by asking her real questions; how long she’s been working today, have they treated her well – things like that. He puts her at ease by talking about books she has read (commenting and making suggestions), and then meaningless things for a few minutes. He asks her what she’s had for lunch and they discuss a particular type of chicken dish she likes. Nothing perverted, just talking. He is articulate, smart, well educated, and has a kind, soothing manner.

She relaxes with him – starts to enjoy the conversation.

“Alright,” he says after a while. “Remind me where we left off. Do you remember?”

She feels the blood rush to her face.

Moaning along to someone else’s fantasy? Easy.

But most calls aren’t about that. You need more than a landline, a sex-positive attitude, and a sexy voice. It’s like sitting in a confessional when the priest is away. You hear private things that should probably be told to someone else, but they need to be told to someone, so it might as well be you. It’s not confession, not therapy exactly, but still requires a special set of skills.  
If you want to live off something other than jars of peanut butter bought in bulk, anyway.

“Um…” She locates his client card, her eyes quickly skimming the page. To do her job, and do it well, she has to excel at four things: listening, organization, imagination, and improvisation. Listen carefully and follow their lead. Imagine. Remember.

He scolds her when she forgets, doesn’t recall things correctly.

It makes her feel like a schoolgirl. A naughty schoolgirl who hasn’t done her homework and doesn’t know any of the answers. Perhaps he gets off on that. Perhaps she does. Perhaps he does because she does.

She’s dubbed him _The Professor_ in her head.

“Yes,” she says. 

There is a second of trepidation.

He prompts “Yes _what_ ,” and it works to chase the feeling away.

“Yes, _sir_ ,” she giggles.

“Good girl. Now tell me.”

Her breath catches. She skims the card again.

You’ve got to be prepared for any call. If the caller says, “Tell me an erotic tale,” you have to have one ready. But this isn’t her tale, it’s his.

“It’s the middle of winter,” she says slowly, her voice growing more confident as she starts to get comfortable in the story, allowing it to unfold and flow easily between them. “Bitterly cold. So cold our breath is fogging up the windows as we ride, somewhere deep in the forest. Outside everything is white, not green, and the wind rattles at the carriage door. It’s the fastest the horses can go and I am worried about them. The sun is about to set. We have to complete our journey before nightfall, but the weather makes it hard to keep track of where we are going. You are telling me the forest is too thick, the snow too heavy-”

“There was a storm. We were caught in a snow storm on our way home,” he corrects.

She swallows. “Yes. A snow storm. Sorry.”

“That’s alright. Go on.”

“So we are riding through the forest during a snowstorm at dusk. The horses are tired, but we can’t stop to let them rest, you say. I am staring out the window, watching the snowy scenery fly by and making a point of not looking at you, because I am cross with you.”

“That you were,” he chuckles. “And you were tired and cranky from the long day.” There’s a fond smile in his voice. She can hear it, but has no time to process it fully.

“I’m tired and it’s cold outside and getting dark, but inside it’s safe and toasty. I like that. We-”

“What do you like? Describe it to me,” he interjects. “Take me there with you.”

She pauses. Glances at her notes. Sexual fantasies are very personal and telling of a man’s true nature. _Detail, detail, detail!_ \- underlined, circled twice.

Most fetish callers want detailed object-focused narratives. Lonely, needy men seek a girlfriend they can whisper sweet-nothings to. Sissy-boys hope to be degraded and pushed around. Somehow he fits none of these categories. Not really. There’s more to this, more to him and his story, but she can’t put her finger on it.

She bites her lip. “I- I like the way the carriage becomes one with the night. The way darkness drowns out all sound and light and we become invisible. I like the red upholstery - even though it has become cold to the touch. When you saw me shiver, you offered me a blanket. Thick, heavy wool to shield me from the cold. You don’t want to share, claiming you’re not cold, and I look at you, blushing.”

He’s purring and mhm-mhm-ing along to her words. No time to judge and no place for it either.

“I like the smell of snow and sheep’s wool that fills the carriage. The blanket his pleasantly heavy on my lap with a nice, rough feel. I wonder where you got it.”

He laughs. “A beautiful mind full of questions.”

That makes her blush for real and she bets he likes it.

“You fell asleep,” he tells her, “but I made sure you stayed wrapped up in your cloak and the blanket. Woke you up when we were pulling up to the castle.”

 _A castle_ , she thinks, leaning forward in her seat and into the phone. _Interesting_.

“The servants were to see you to your chambers,” he states.

“Where will you go?”

“To the dungeons. And you weren’t to follow me.” His voice is suddenly clipped. Rough. Guarded.

“What if I do?” She asks, testing her hypothesis and trying to row the boat into more familiar waters.

“No.”

 _Wrong_.  
It can be hard to tread that fine line between listening and absorbing what your caller is saying, and anticipating where he is going and what he wants you to do.

 _He_ makes it _impossible_ and she is stuck, getting all worked up trying to work out if he is seeking her input, or setting up some sort of weird fantasy. Instead of answering her questions, he’ll only repeat himself, she knows, not moving the story forward until she gets it right.

Her notes on their phone call are in front of her – she’s glancing through them, trying to figure out what she’s missing. Out of frustration she writes, “I can’t do this, if I don’t know what the deal is-” which you can never say, only think. And write.

In the background she can hear a door open and close on his side, and he says, “You wanted to,” His tone is gentle now. Coaxing, negotiating. “But you went to check on the horses first. I didn’t understand that at the time, but it suited me just fine.”

“I am caring, _kind_ ,” she tries cautiously, her pen halting mid-scribble. “And… _curious_.”

She grins and hears him smile again. “Yes you are, sweetheart. Which is cause for your nose to be places it shouldn’t be and your eyes seeing what they should not.”

Good girl stepping out of line. Topping her Master from the bottom. Got it.

“I know I shouldn’t, but suddenly I am wide awake and burning to know what you are up to. I’ve never been allowed in that part of the castle before and dying to know why. So after a while I creep down, careful not to trip on the hem of my dress. The steps are slippery and it’s dark and getting colder, and I am a little afraid…”

“You should have been. I am darker, dearie, much darker than you think. But it didn’t keep you from opening that door….”

“And?”

Damn, he’s a good storyteller and she’s on the edge of her seat. Way to abandon the wheel, girl.

“I’ll try to call you back sometime and tell you,” he says, a strange sadness mixed in that makes her ache for him involuntarily. “Goodnight, Lacey.”

“Goodnight, Mr Gold.”


End file.
